


bad things are fun

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Campaign (Podcast)
Genre: Hermaphrodites, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Skyjacks, demisexual gable, entirely too much banter, seriously thats the majority of this fic im sorry, some brief dref
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-21 16:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18705778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Make me, wants to trip out of his mouth, and Travis usually never restrains himself from saying whatever the hell he wants, but that is such a blatantly fuck me thing to say--Oh. Huh. He looks up at them, like he’s seeing them for the first time.





	bad things are fun

The sun is rising, and Travis is changing skins. He’d trotted on four paws to Dref’s clinic to shift somewhere private enough that his cracking bones wouldn’t wake anyone unfortunate up. Dref is hiding in the bathroom from ‘the goopening’, almost certainly holding his hands over his ears as he fights back bile and whimpers. 

Travis would be smug or amused by it, but his mind can only be blank during this time. Focused on the body, the skin tearing like wet tissue paper only to grow and reconnect, bones liquid like they’ve been melted by hot magma. 

Eventually, the sun has crested the horizon. He pants, letting his thoughts slowly drift back to him through the shaky haze of leftover pain without immediately smirking to cover it up. He’s alone right now. He’ll have to cajole Dref out of the bathroom in a moment. He slowly feels out his new-familiar muscles, getting acquainted with having two legs instead of four, and so on, stretching. Deep breath in, a gust of a sigh out. Relax. 

People can get used to anything. He’s been around for more than a while, and this has been happening twice a day the whole time. It’s nothing. 

“Oh, Dreeeef,” he calls out, moving towards the bathroom door once he feels composed again. Dref doesn’t respond, most likely because he’s still clutching at his ears while muttering ‘oh god’s to himself. He gives the door a playful knock, something a coyote certainly wouldn’t be able to do. “I’m decent.” 

After a cautious moment, the door slowly creaks open to reveal Dref’s pale, clammy face. Travis smiles and waves at it, oh so charming. Dref hurriedly closes the door again. 

“Rude!” he says. 

“You, you are not de-- de-- decent!” 

“Yeah, that’s really underselling it,” he agrees, looking down at himself. “More like gorgeous.” 

“P-put some, some clothes on!” 

“And cover up this masterpiece?” 

“Stop teasing him, Travis,” Gable says, and Travis tenses for a moment before going liquid and smug and turning around languidly with a self assured smirk, like he doesn’t really care one way or another about what’s behind him. 

Gable is standing right by the door, in the process of closing it. They’ve just arrived. 

Good. 

“I thought you _ liked _ teasing him,” he accuses. 

“Sometimes, but you take it too far,” Gable says, all holier than thou. _ Ha.  _ He’s hilarious. 

“Oh, foo, don’t be such a killjoy, Gable.” 

Gable just gives him an unamused Look at that. Travis gives them a charming wink right back. 

“Does he, d-- does he have pants on yet,” Dref groans, presumably cowering behind the door. 

“Not quite yet,” they say kindly. They turn a decidedly  _ unkind _ look on Travis. “But soon,” they add threateningly. 

Travis kind of wants to keep on being obstinate just to see what this ‘or else’ Gable is implying is. Throw him out of the clinic naked? So what. Forcibly dress him? That sounds pretty fun, actually. He could make a game out of being as uncooperative as possible while still retaining plausible deniability. 

Gable massages their temple with one hand. “Travis,” they say warningly. “Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t. You’ll regret it.” 

_ “Ominous,” _ Travis says with undisguised relish. 

Gable makes a small annoyed sound that’s somehow a little intimidating, but intimidation has only ever made him puff up with by all appearances effortless and thoughtless genuine bravado, smugly condescending to prickle the intimidater’s ego and make them lose their cool. Seeing someone’s face turn a blotchy red as they sputter with rage goes a long way towards defanging someone’s presence, not to mention composure. 

Gable doesn’t go a blotchy red or start sputtering. They start marching straight towards Travis, long legs eating up the distance between them. 

_ Run, _ the rabbit inside of him insists. Run and find a dark hole to hide until the predator goes away. 

Travis shakes the thought off. It’s easier than it could be. The rabbit is winter, but it’s summer now, the coyote in him the strongest. He stands his grown, lounging without a care in the world. 

Gable is soft hearted, he reminds himself. 

Gable also has a temper. 

On the way over to him, they bend over quickly without breaking their stride to snatch something up from the ground, what was-- 

They smack the pair of pants he’d thoughtfully carried with him in his mouth earlier into his chest. 

“Put. Them. On.” 

_ Make me,  _ wants to trip out of his mouth, and Travis usually never restrains himself from saying whatever the hell he wants, but that is  _ such _ a blatantly  _ fuck me _ thing to say--

Oh. Huh. He looks up at them, like he’s seeing them for the first time. 

Gable is outrageously tall and ridiculously well muscled with fine bones and pale blue eyes and fetching white hair and a  _ do not cross  _ me sort of expression on their face. Anyone with any brains between their ears could look at them and see that there’s something not quite right about them; that whatever they are, it’s not human. 

Not his usual type, which is why he’s never thought to even consider them before, like they were as much of a non-option as a rock or Spit. He goes for the type who go for someone like him. Someone who’s ready to find a sleazy secretive full of himself liar endearing and amusing, ready to indulge him. 

Gable may be charitable, but  _ indulgent _ they are not. Travis had known from the first time that he clapped eyes on them that they had a stick up their ass the size of a mast, and had without a second thought dismissed them as a source for fun. 

But… if he  _ does  _ consider them, then… 

Well, they’re quite a looker. Especially when they’re being so stern and bossy with him, looming over him. While he’s naked. 

Huh. He hadn’t realized that he was that into that kind of thing. You really do keep learning something new every day. 

“You’re, the t--two of you, are being very q-- qui-- quiet all of a s-- sudden,” Dref calls out hesitantly, breaking the heavy tension in the air as the two of them intently look into each other’s eyes for completely different reasons. “Is everything alright?” 

Travis takes the pants, visibly surprising Gable who seemed to be gearing up to throwing him out of a window or something. 

“Peachy,” he says, and slips into his pants as seductively as he knows how while maintaining eye contact with Gable. Gable gives him a baffled look. 

“I don’t understand you,” they finally say, shaking their head. 

Just the way he likes it, he doesn’t say. 

“You can come out now, you delicate wilting flower! Honestly, I’ve walked onto you tweaking the captain while he’s naked _ how _ many times now?” 

“Cor--corpses get erections! I had to fix it!” 

_ “What?” _ Gable exclaims in incredulous horror, but Travis can detect the morbid fascination hiding there. He grins knowingly at it. 

“Death is inherently horny, Gable. Honestly,  _ everyone  _ knows that.” 

Dref cautiously exits the bathroom like he’s going to be pounced on as soon as he reveals himself. “Th--that’s not why-- oh, good, you’re wearing, ah, pants.” 

“Pretty disrespectful to talk that way about a national tragedy.” 

“Oh, be quiet,” Gable huffs with a roll of their eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.” 

“Not without good reason!” He makes sure to make his hips sway as he walks towards the door, not bothering to button up his pants. 

“You can’t seriously mean to leave like that!” Gable protests. 

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” he asks coyly. “Orimar keeps me up and out of my hammock _ all  _ night.” 

Gable makes a disgusted, morally indignant noise behind him. He smirks. 

“Jealous?” 

“Of a corpse?” 

Travis decides to take it as a good sign that they didn’t say ‘of you?’ instead. Encouragement, even. Get an inch, take a mile. Words to live by. 

He casually leaves without another word, which is the only way to properly exit a room in his opinion, with a new resolution in mind. 

He _ will  _ seduce a fallen angel. 

A specific one. 

 

As quartermaster, it turns out that Travis doesn’t even have to play for his booze any longer, even though that’s already as easy as taking candy from a baby. He can just take it  _ right from storage.  _

This job isn’t half bad, even if he has to trick people into doing math for him now. 

He considers his angle of attack, gets bored of that, and decides to just make his way through on bravado alone. A classic! 

He sneaks up on Gable as they’re leaning against the railing of a less populated part of the ship, leaning on their folded arms, a few locks of hair teased out of their neat braided updo by the wind. The question is if Gable is ruminating or brooding Byronically here or whatever because there weren’t a whole lot of people here to start with, or if there aren’t a whole lot of people here right now because Gable set up shop here. A chicken and the egg sort of deal. The easiest way to avoid being given a cutting look and asked if you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing in a particularly pointed way is to just not be on the same part of the ship as Gable. Honestly, Travis is starting to get an inkling suspicion that Gable barely know their way around a ship and is mostly just catching lollygaggers based on how guiltily they jump when their eyes land on them. 

A solid strategy, really. He respects it. Also appreciates it for how easy it is to evade with a solid poker face and enough audacity to hold onto it in the face of Gable’s sceptic eyebrows, Travis’ specialty.  

He waves the bottle in front of their face, making them twitch with startlement and then still, their eyes narrowing dangerously as they slightly turn their face in his direction. He shoots them an unrepentant smile. 

“Thirsty?” 

“... Yes, actually,” they admit grudgingly. 

Travis opens the bottle and offers it to them magnanimously. Gable accepts it tentatively and then gives it a doubtful sniff. Travis gives an offended gasp and puts a hand on his chest. 

“Wow, accept gifts badly, much?” 

“You stole this,” Gable says, and it doesn’t sound so much like a question or an accusation as it does a flat statement of fact. 

“How so? It was in storage. I’m the quartermaster, in charge of storage. Everything I decide about where our wares go is legitimate and official.” 

“Nothing you do is official, since you’ve apparently lost the log book. And even before you did, I doubt you wrote anything in it.” 

_ “Bureaucracy,” _ he says with great exasperation. “So inefficient. I keep being sabotaged by red tape. So much easier to just circumvent that, no?” 

“The log book is important,” Gable insists, ornery. Clearly just a  _ bit _ bitter about being usurped like that. Travis smirks smugly. 

“What, so the crew will have a paper trail to point to when they want to justify my execution?” 

Gable shoots him a shocked look. “What-- that’s terrible! Travis, the crew wouldn’t  _ murder you.”  _

There’s a brief silence as they both think  _ unless they find about Orimar, of course.  _

They both tactfully elect not to acknowledge that while out in the open on the deck. Not to mention that Travis is enacting a seduction, here. Gable doesn’t seem to find the risk of being caught (for puppetting your dead captains corpse around for months in a ridiculous longcon) particularly sexy. Better steer their mind away from the subject entirely. 

“You doubt how much I can annoy people.” 

“Travis, you aren’t irritating enough to make a mob of people want to tear you apart-- wait. What am I saying?” 

“I was going to say,” he says, amused. “You sounded like you didn’t know me at all, for a moment there.” 

Gable sighs, pinches the bridge of their nose, and throws their head back and chugs from the bottle. Travis is delighted. 

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I hope that you save some for me!” he laughs. 

Gable brings back down the bottle only half empty--or half full if you’re an opportunist, which is like an optimist but not doomed for an early death--with a great gust of breath, sucking in air. With how strong that rotgut is, that’ll be more than enough to loose up even  _ Gable.  _

Gable grimaces theatrically. “Goodnes, this stuff is  _ foul.”  _

“I admit, I prefer a good rosé, but at times when supplies are low even I must make do,” he says with noble sacrifice. 

Gable snorts and knocks their shoulder into his, a bit too rough like the ridiculously strong adrenaline junkie they are at heart, but friendly and amiable. Travis’ blood heats. This is part of what he’s after, the goal he’s conning and scamming and scheming his way towards. He takes a delicate sip of the booze and doesn’t let his expression so much as twitch. 

Dear lord, but he misses the good stuff. He stole an absolutely wonderful bottle of wine from a duchess a hundred years ago that still haunts him to this day, teasing him with the memory of it. 

“Soooo,” he says. “A fallen angel, huh?” 

Gable’s ease immediately slides off of them, their posture going guarded straight and their mouth gaining an unfriendly slant to it, but he detects some veiled nerves there. Goodness, what are they even thinking that he’s getting at? So distrustful. You hate to see it. “Yes? What about it?” 

“Well, it’s just that I was wondering if all of that  _ purity _ garbage I’ve heard about is true. I know it’s crass to ask someone  _ what’s  _ in their pants but I may I ask if there’s anything there at all?”

Gable looks at him blankly for a moment and then starts sputtering, flustered and a little indignantly mad. “I don’t see how that’s any of your-- why are you even  _ thinking  _ about-- I’m not telling you!” 

“Oh,” he says, with extremely audible and visible realization and pity, as if Gable has just told him that their grandmother has gone mad with syphilis. “So, nothing, then.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“It’s alright, Gable, we all have our shortcomings. I confess, even I sometimes have bad hair days.” 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“Okay, you got me. That was a lie. My hair is always amazing. I was just trying to make you feel better. I’m so sorry that god screwed you over like that--” 

“I’ve got _ something,” _ Gable hisses at him, looming in close and furious, red faced and not even vaguely serenely contemplating the horizon any longer. They look much better when they’re paying attention to Travis, in his humble and right opinion. He soaks it up with self satisfaction, and slowly curls a hood eyed smirk at Gable, who freezes a bit as they catch up with their own words. 

_ “Something,  _ huh,” Travis repeats, tasting the words like they’re a delicacy. Gable flushes like he’d just said something filthy. 

“Let’s change the subject,” they say uncomfortably, but unfortunately for Gable, Travis _ loves _ making other people uncomfortable. They really should know this about him by now. They brought this on themselves. 

“Oh no, no, no, you can’t be serious, Gable my dear. My curiosity has been piqued now! I couldn’t possibly  _ not  _ pursue the subject! So it’s  _ something,  _ but I don't get to know  _ what _ something? How shall I ever be able to stop thinking about it? At least give me a hint. Does it look like something a regular human could have, or do you have  _ special _ equipment?” 

Still flushed, Gable frowns down at him censoriously. 

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he says sweetly. 

_ “Everyone’s  _ seen yours, Travis,” Gable says with an eye roll. 

Well, actually, everyone in the inner circle has seen his, to be more precise. And to be even more precise, Dref has nervously averted his eyes from it, Jonnit has stared at it with an open and almost innocent curiosity that Travis then mercilessly teased him over until he was stuttering as badly as Dref, and Gable has paid no more attention to it than Travis’ nose or elbow or navel, as if it were just another part of him. 

Hm. Not so promising, now that he thinks about it. Then again, Gable’s acting like genitals are something to be embarrassed about  _ now. _ Maybe they were just following his lead at the time, going along with his casually confident body language? Deciding that it wasn’t a big deal because Travis wasn’t acting like it was a big deal? Or maybe they’re just shy when it comes to their  _ own  _ bits. 

Honestly, he can’t remember the last time he put this much thought or effort into  _ anything. _ This lay better be worth it. 

“And yet you still haven’t shown me yours in exchange,” he huffs. “Rude, much?” 

“I don’t remember agreeing to that deal,” Gable says, taking another swig of the booze. 

“You were drunk at the time,” he says. “But the contract is still binding.” 

Gable snorts. “Can’t get drunk.” 

Travis pauses. “Excuse me?” 

“Must be a part of the whole angel thing. Can’t get drunk, can’t get scars, can’t get permanent tattoos…” 

“Then why,” he says carefully, “are you _ drinking?  _ Do you like tasting rotten antiseptic for fun?” 

“You seemed pretty set on it, so I thought I’d let you have this,” they say with an idle, unconcerned shrug. Dear lord, they were  _ humoring him. _ And not even because he’d manipulated them into it, Travis realizes with something like horror. That part makes it rankle, somehow. That and that Travis just wasted a good bottle of terrible booze on someone who won’t even get all silly on it. Gable’s brow furrows worriedly. “Hang on, this is antiseptic?” 

“Well, I know that the base ingredients were stolen out of Dref’s pharmacy, at the very least,” he says stiffly, trying to recover from being dealt a horrible blow by someone who wasn’t even trying. By  _ Gable.  _ Good lord, the only one worse would be Dref. Or Jonnit. Or Spit. Or Slam. Or most of the people on this ship. 

Travis is surrounded by idiots that it would be devastating to lose to in any way. He  _ supposes  _ that if he has to lose to one of them, Gable is the least horrifying option. 

“How isn’t our whole crew dead by now?” Gable asks in marveling horror. 

“They’re Skyjacks,” he says dismissively. “If they were smart enough not to get drunk on literal poison, they’d be in a different line of work.” 

“Hey.” 

“Excluding current painfully sober company. Who knows why  _ you’re _ here.” 

Gable takes another grimacing sip of the booze. Travis watches them drink what he  _ knows _ tastes like sewage if sewage had a hospital flavor.  _ Moldy  _ hospital. They’re literally not getting anything out of it. 

They’re just doing it to humor him. 

Travis yanks the bottle out of Gable’s hand and drinks the rest of it in one go in self defense. 

“Hey--!” 

Upon emptying it, he immediately throws the offending bottle off the ship with all of the strength he can muster, some sort of self preservation instinct inside of his head finally belatedly rearing its head to try and save him. Ha, too late. It’s already inside him. God, the taste  _ is _ foul. 

They watch the bottle tumble down the sky out of sight, down into the ocean far below. 

Travis decides that he’s sick of trying to dance around the issue. Gable’s too straightforward to try and get at something sideways with. 

“Nice throw,” Gable says. 

“Buss me,” Travis says. 

_ “What?”  _ Gable gapes. 

“Screw,” he clarifies. “Fornicate. Sleep with. Have relations with. Copulate.  _ Fuck. _ Really, so many words for just one thing, seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it?” 

“... Why?” they ask, sounding genuinely bewildered. 

Travis turns to raise a couple of incredulous eyebrows at them. “Why? Why do you think? Why do people _ usually _ fornicate?” 

“You just picked the worst one of the words,” they say. “And… because they’re attracted to each other?” 

“And because they want some _ fun.  _ Come on, this ship’s so boring! It’s a common way to pass time. The whole crew’s doing it. Daisy and Fuentes, Nodoze and what’s his face, etcetera. All of the no names are screwing, we might as well get in on it. We deserve it! We’re both  _ very  _ handsome.” This argument seems  _ very _ sound to Travis’ increasingly tipsy brain. He and Gable should have sex, and then someone should make a  _ statue _ of it and put it in a museum, so that only people who wash their hands will get to see and appreciate it. 

Gable looks quite shocked at this turn of events.  _ “Everyone?”  _

“Everyone,” Travis says solemnly, nodding. 

“Wasp?” 

“Yup.” 

“Slam?” 

“Uh huh.”

“Spit?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

Gable pales at that. “How did I miss this?” 

“There may or may not have been a crew wide effort to exclude you from the gossip.” 

Gable actually looks _ hurt _ at that, the ridiculous thing. “Why?” 

“Apparently, you give off the vibe of an intimidating school marm who will rap a student’s fingers with a ruler for saying a dirty word.” 

Gable looks offended. Clearly, this is the perfect moment to strike. 

“So,” Travis says, oozing suggestively in Gable’s direction, all languid and liquid body movement, smirking and looking up at them, too close. “Will you make me the happiest changeling on this ship, Gable?” 

“You’re the only changeling on this ship,” they say dumbly, obviously vamping for time as they try to internalize this new state of affairs. 

“Oh my, what devastating news,” he drawls. “If only I had someone big and tall and strong to cradle me in their arms so that I could weep into the comfort of their bosom…” 

Gable’s mouth twitches with amusement despite themself. “Yes, you’re clearly grief stricken at these shocking news.” 

“I’m in desperate need of a warm touch to remind me that I’m alive,” he agrees. He inches closer, close enough to count their eyelashes. Gable doesn’t push him away. 

He’s  _ winning. _ A smug thrill runs up his spine. 

“Come onnnn,” he weedles. “It’ll be  _ fun.” _

“Well… alright.” 

Travis restrains himself from punching the air in victory and gloating. Just barely. He knew he’d win, of course. He always does. It was never in doubt. 

His mouth is stretching with a smirk,  _ not  _ a smile. 

Gable smiles back, soft and fond. 

 

At least they don’t have to struggle through the usual hoops the rest of the lowly crew have to deal with when they want to have a private moment. No trying to find an empty storage room or broom closet, no promising some of your rations to have a lookout to turn people away at the door with an excuse or distraction. When Orimar’s inner circle (and Orimar) died, they all took over one of those bedrooms. 

Travis was sick of sneaking around to find somewhere to shift without being caught  _ and  _ deserves to live in the lap of luxury. Gable was too tall to sleep in a hammock, which is hilarious. Dref started sleeping in  _ Orimar’s _ bed, with Orimar standing silently and creepily in the corner, with the rest of the crew just kind of assuming that he sleeps in infirmary itself, like a teacher that sleeps at the school. Jonnit, the poor naive fool, didn’t think to grab a room while the grabbing was good. 

Travis casually leads them towards Gable’s room, because he prefers to be intruding in other peoples spaces, rather them intruding in his. Not that he’d ever let them know that he felt uncomfortable about any part of it. Casually getting naked and changing clothes in front of someone mid conversation is a valid powermove. 

Gable, strange creature that they are, doesn’t seem to read anything into his choice, taking it entirely at face value. 

They also keep nervously darting looks around them as they make their  _ harrowing  _ journey across the ship.  

“You don’t even get this jumpy about being caught for puppeting the good captain’s corpse,” he says, amused. Gable’s eyes just about pop out of their head before they vigorously shush him, wildly looking around them for eavesdroppers. 

_ “Travis,” _ they scold him. He grins. “Be  _ discreet.”  _

“I am the most discreet man you’ve ever met,” he says loftily. The funny thing is that he’s telling the truth. 

Gable scoffs at him.  _ “Why  _ am I doing this with _ you?”  _

“Because I’m the most handsome man on this ship.” That one’s true as well. God, that’s the best kind of bragging. Travis is thoroughly enjoying himself, and they haven’t even started yet. 

“Maybe so,” Gable grants with great reluctance, pained in the face of objective reality, and Travis flashes them his coyote grin. “But looks can only make up for so much personality, and you have a _ lot  _ of personality.” 

“Why, thank you,” he purrs. “Please, feel free to keep showering me with praise.” 

“That was not praise,” they say, pinching the bridge of their nose. 

“I assure you, Gable, that you will have a wonderful night… or rather afternoon, considering what my nights are like. Unless you’d like to--?” 

“What-- no!” Disgust floods the word. Honestly, that was the answer he’d been poking for. He’s not such a big fan of bestiality to be perfectly honest, but that’s somehow embarrassing to admit to, and he _ is  _ a big fan of getting reactions out of people. 

“Well then, human style Travis will have to be enough for you.” 

“I’m not sure I’m even in the mood any longer,” they mutter. 

Oh dear. Had he gone too far? Gable can take things so seriously sometimes, especially bestiality and necrophilia, for some reason.  _ Sensitive.  _

Gallantly, he opens the door for them when they come to their room. Gable raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. He throws his hands up as he follows them inside. “There’s no satisfying angels. So pious, such high standards… I bet no one gets to heaven. Hey, could you give me a list of who’s gotten into heaven? I’ve got a lot of guesses that I want to confirm.” 

“I have no memories of the time before I fell,” they remind him dryly. Travis shrugs. 

“Well, that’s no fun.” And then he takes off his hair tie, shakes his shoulder length gray hair out, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

“What,” Gable says, briefly looking floored before having to cover up an incredulous smile. “What is that face that you’re making?” 

“I’ll have you know that this face has seduced any number of pompous royalty down to the most humble of milkmaids.” He lets the shirt slide down his shoulders as he works on his belt buckle. He knows that it gives him that ravishing rumpled look, as if passion has overtaken him too much for him to bear to properly and fully undress. 

“Are you going to be talking about how great you are the entire time? Is that the usual, or just a you thing? It feels like a you thing.” 

Travis is sliding his belt out of its loops when he pauses and looks up, a thought suddenly occurring to him. 

“Gable,” he says, “you  _ have _ done this before, right?” 

What if he has a  _ virginal angel  _ on his hands? He doesn’t know whether to be delighted or horrified at the idea. 

Gable flushes. “Of course I have! I’ve been wandering the earth for hundreds of years, of course I-- of course I  _ tried  _ it--” 

“How many times?” he asks, truly suspicious now. “And how long ago?” 

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” they say primly. 

“So not much, and a long time ago,” he summarizes. Gable shoots him a glare that’s as good as confirmation. “Do you… even like it?” 

He suppresses a groan at the thought. All of that work and charm,  _ wasted.  _ But Gable  _ did  _ say yes. Sure, they may act a bit like a martyr sometimes, but they never bother to indulge  _ Travis, _ so the answer must be genuine. But people don’t just refrain from having sex for hundreds of years if they enjoy having sex either. That would be like not reading a book for hundreds of years even though you quite like reading. Travis has long since lost count of the amount of people and books he’s enjoyed at this point. He must be in the triple digits at the  _ least.  _

“I,” Gable says, which isn’t an encouraging start. “I  _ do, _ just only… in certain circumstances.” 

“What sort of circumstances?” he asks, eyebrow raised. “I don’t kinkshame, really. Are you the sort who can’t finish unless someone’s watching? I  _ suppose _ I could go and fetch Dref or someone else to--” 

_ “No!” _ Gable says, horrified and indignant in equal measure, cheeks bright red. 

“--oh, but if you need to cry out a love confession as you’re doing it, that’s my hard limit, that’s my squick, absolutely not--” 

“It’s not about kink!” Gable protests. 

“What, so you’re completely vanilla? Now _ I’m _ rethinking this…” 

“I have kinks, of course, who doesn’t, it’s just that the specific circumstances that I require to enjoy sex do not revolve around kink. Am I being clear, do you understand?” 

“Hyper repressed religious conservatives,” he says. 

“What?” they say. 

“Those are the people who don’t have kinks.” 

“I’d actually argue that they’re the kinkiest ones of us all.” 

“That’s true. That’s fair. I concede the argument. What were we talking about?” 

“The circumstances required for me to enjoy sex.” 

“Right! So, candles…?” 

Gable sighs, pinches the bridge of their nose. A typical ‘dealing with Travis’ expression, but not so much of a ‘getting ready to have some great sex now’ expression. If only Gable could actually get tipsy then maybe they’d both have their pants off by now. 

“Sex with strangers does nothing for me,” they say. “Or even people I don’t know that well. That’s why I said yes to you, Travis. We’re friends. Right?” 

Travis looks at Gable, who just asked that question not like they were genuinely wondering, but as if it was rhetorical, as if to prove a point, to point out an objective fact. No doubt, no insecurity, utterly casual and guileless. 

They know nothing about him. No one knows anything true about him. 

“Of course,” he says smoothly, without hesitation. 

(But for once, this isn’t a lie. Right? If you turn your head and squint? Gable and anyone may know nothing about him, but they’re still friends, right? They share some secrets, one dead captain shaped secret that could get them into a considerable amount of trouble if revealed. They conspire. They talk. They joke. One doesn’t have to know another person down to their very soul to like them and be their friend, right? Otherwise, Travis has  _ never _ had a friend, not once. They’re friends. He’s sure of it. He’s pretty sure. He’s fairly--) 

“So there’s no problem,” Gable says, gesturing with one long arm as if to shoo the brief distraction away. 

“Pity,” he says. “Forbidden, fraught affairs with multiple obstacles in the way have far more panache to them than a friendly get together.” 

“You’re not romantic enough to persevere in the face of competition,” Gable says. 

“Well that’s because _ I’m _ the one who’s supposed to be fetchingly swooning against fainting couches and balcony railings while the other person works for it. I’m a prize, Gable.” 

“You wouldn’t want to be an equal partner instead?” they ask dryly. 

“Impossible, I’m out of  _ everyone’s _ league.” 

“I watched you eat a rat once,” Gable points out. 

“I was a serpent at the time,” he defends himself. He stops and thinks. “Or was it a raven?” 

“No, you were a coyote. Which just tells me that you’ve eaten a rat at least three times.” 

“Oh sweet, naive Gable,” he sighs, shaking his head sadly. “Do you really think that you can live for as long as I have without eating more than three rats?” 

Gable gestures at themselves, eyebrow pointedly raised. 

_ “You _ don’t have all of your memories intact,” he replies archly. “I bet you ate  _ dozens _ of rats back when you were a heavenly host.” 

“It’s funny how you only remember the amnesia thing when it’s to your advantage.” 

“I’m not hearing any denials!” 

“Because I have  _ amnesia, _ although I really doubt I had to eat rats up in the  _ clouds.”  _

“You never know. Perhaps god is a slumlord. There’s no evidence against it.” 

“So are we going to do this or not?” Gable asks in a blatant bid to escape from the argument that they are clearly losing, gesturing between the two of them and the bed. 

“Oh, you want to do it on the  _ bed? _ Interesting choice.” At least Gable had brought the subject up first. That has to be the first promising sign from them all evening, besides the yes. 

“Where else would we do it?” It takes Travis a long moment to realize that they’re actually being  _ serious.  _

“The floor?” he says. “The wall? The chair? The desk? Up against the door?” 

“None of these options sound very comfortable.” 

“I admit, these locations are mostly for very athletic young people searching either for novelty or an opportunity to spite daddy by having their boyfriend come on his paperwork.” 

“As this is our first time--” Travis makes a noise _ , “--with each other,  _ I don’t think that we need to look for novelty just yet.” 

Leaving the door open for a repeat performance. Interesting. 

“And what of spiting daddy?” 

“Who would that be, in this situation? Orimar? I’d rather not involve him in this.” 

“Too bad for you, I’ve heard that he’s quite the catch.” Gable snorts derisively at him. “No, I was referring to god, actually. Should we go find a cross or something to do it under?” 

“I’m good, thanks,” they say flatly. 

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, and heads over towards the bed, shedding his shoes, socks, pants, unbuttoned shirt, and small clothes on the way. Honestly, he hadn’t wanted to do it anywhere but the bed in the first place. Anywhere else and he may have ended up with  _ splinters.  _

He flops down on Gable’s bed experimentally. He looks up at them accusingly. “Of course you took the least comfortable bed.” 

“I prefer hard mattresses,” they say defensively. He turns onto his side and poses for them, tossing his hair. Gable smiles fondly at him, which drives an unexpected spike of warmth up into his gut. 

“Do you also prefer making love with clothes on? Not that I’m protesting, except I am, because I want at the very least for one of us to be inside the other, and to see what exactly you’ve got going on.” 

“Is that what this is about? Sating your curiosity?” They don’t sound upset about it as much as they sound half curious and half judgemental. 

_ Not really.  _

“And what if it is?” he says elusively. 

“If you’re this bored, I’ll make sure that we get some new books the next time we dock at a port,” Gable decides. 

“New ones,” he says. “I’ve read all of the old ones.” 

_ “All _ of the old ones, huh?” 

“Well, not the boring ones, but don’t get me a boring old book either. New ones exclusively! Prefely ones where the people on the cover are only half dressed.” 

Gable rolls their eyes, smiles. “Well, I suppose that it’s good that I’m learning what sort of stuff you like, for your birthday.” They pause. “Hey, when _ is _ your birth--?” 

“Clothes,” Travis interrupts them hurriedly, impatiently. “They’re _ still _ on. It’s quite rude, you know.” 

“Oh, right,” they say, and start undressing. There is a shocking amount of buttons and clasps and ties to undo, considering how much of their cleavage their shirt shows off. He studies them as they reveal more and more of their bare skin, distracted by their own task. Muscular. Unsurprising, aesthetically pleasing. Not that scarred. Strange, but not when you consider that Gable isn’t exactly human. There are bandages looping across Gable’s chest that they don’t unwind, which make him curious. Peeking out from the bandages at their back are many faded tattoos, all seemingly random and not that significant, but not tasteless either. They start taking their hair down before they go for their pants. It is  _ elaborately _ braided, so this takes some time. Travis sighs, but quietly, because this whole undressing thing is taking long enough time as it is, he’d rather not stretch it out even further with  _ more _ bickering. 

Apparently not quietly enough. 

“Am I taking too long?” Gable asks, in a particular way that clearly signals that they don’t give a damn if the answer is yes. 

“You could at least do a sexy little dance if this is going to take you ten minutes,” he says reasonably. 

“Oh, it’ll take five minutes at the most.” 

“Are you willing to bet money on that? Should I fetch one of my clocks from the floor?” 

Gable rolls their eyes at him again, and with a deft twist of their fingers they undo the last tie or braid or knot, and suddenly hair is  _ unfolding _ from their head, from who knows where. It is white and thick and wavy from being up in braids all day, and it goes to Gable’s waist, which is quite a ways down from their head. 

“Good lord,” he says, eyes wide. “Were you hiding all of that in some sort of angelic pocket dimension?” 

Gable shakes their hair out, and he swears to god that he sees it in slow motion. They rake a hand through their bountiful hair to get it out of their eyes. “It’s called braiding, Travis. Perhaps I could teach it to you sometime.” 

“That’s not braiding. That’s dark magic.” 

“Dark magic is more Dref’s thing.” 

“Do you think his great and terrible powers would be enough to finally get your pants off?” 

“Maybe the power of a please will be enough,” Gable says loftily. 

_ “Please,” _ he says, rolling his eyes. 

Gable rolls their eyes back. “Not like that.” 

“Pretty please?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Try again.” 

“With a cherry on top.” 

“Are you even capable of a genuine please? Or would that kill you. I’m genuinely curious.” 

Travis loudly scoffs his exasperation and abruptly vaults out of the bed before quickly approaching Gable and going to his knees. “Forget this,” he says. “I usually prefer talking my way towards victory instead of doing the work myself like some kind of  _ stooge,  _ but you’re like a brick wall. I’ll just do this myself!” 

Gable blinks down at him, appearing a little flummoxed before their familiar ‘dealing with Travis’ expression reasserts itself. “Poor you, reduced to unbuttoning a pair of pants. Are you certain, Travis? What if you get blisters? What if you sprain something?” 

“Well, I’m selfless like that,” he says, truly impatient now. They are in Gable’s bedroom, he’s naked, he’s charming, Gable’s said yes,  _ how is this taking so long? _ He grabs at Gable’s pants, focusing on his goal. 

Shockingly, there is no dry repartee to that. As he pops the button free and starts pulling the pants down, a hand settles into his hair, all long fingers and light touch. He looks up at them, startled. 

The expression on Gable’s face-- he’s never seen it before. It’s… warmer, softer, fonder, more private--

Intimate. That’s the word. 

Travis, who has been naked this entire time, abruptly starts actually feeling naked. He doesn’t tense through sheer force of will. 

This isn’t what he wanted. He wanted harshness. He wants for the hand in his hair to go tight, pulling, pushing. He doesn’t need--  _ softness, _ from people. He can take care of himself, he’ll take what he wants, and what he wants is to be fucked into the mattress and have hand shaped bruises on his hips for days afterwards.  _ That  _ sounds nice. 

“Travis--” Gable says, close and quiet. 

He yanks one of their feet up from the ground, and they make a startled sound, hand in his hair going tight to keep their balance, tugging sharply at his roots. 

“Shoes off,  _ then _ pants,” he says blithely, pulling the long boot off. “How silly of me.” 

“You--!” Gable says, like he just stole their food or spilled ink on something they were reading.  _ That’s _ more like it. That’s how they should sound. 

“And now the left one!” he says, not letting Gable regain their balance before lifting the other one up, throwing the discarded boot carelessly over his shoulder. Gable makes a strangled sound of rage. Travis grins, toothy and bubbling with amusement, like his blood is fizzy champagne. As soon as he’s got the last boot off, Gable capitalizes on their newfound freedom to shove him onto his back on the floor with their bare foot to his shoulder. 

He looks up at them, looming over him, white hair long and loose, only covered by their wrappings around their chest and their unbuttoned pants, glaring down at him. 

“Now that’s a view,” he says appreciatively. 

“You  _ infuriating--” _ they say, biting off the rest of their sentence on their own. They make a frustrated noise. 

This is the tipping point. They could decide right now, very easily, to put their shirt back on and just leave him here. Or more likely, mercilessly throw Travis out of their room, with his clothes following him a few moments later. 

Gable shoves their pants down the floor and steps out of them instead. 

Travis would take the opportunity to crow, to brag, to preen, to flatter himself with how smart and cunning and resourceful he is, to celebrate his victory, except. Well. It is quite an arresting sight. 

He had wondered and teased what exactly Gable had, who so effortlessly slid between man or woman or neither whenever it suited them, but it hadn’t occurred to him to consider  _ this _ possibility. 

“Well,” he says, not sounding as smooth and unruffled as he would prefer. “Talk about eating your cake and having it too.” 

Breasts, a vagina, and a cock. You really can have it both ways. It’s not even just an elongated clitoris, like it usually is with intersex fellows. It’s… straight up a cock. An  _ impressive _ one, at that. He’s pleased to see that it’s already starting to stand up to attention for him. 

Surprise has always easily slid off of Travis, who has always liked being quick on the uptake, quicker than anyone else, and it does so now, leaving behind only skyrocketing smugness at realizing what he’s managed to talk into his bed here. 

“Oh, shush,” Gable says, and plants their feet at his sides before kneeling down. 

_ About time,  _ he thinks as they lean down and seal their lips to his. He closes his eyes and parts his lips for their tongue. Mm, warm. Their long fingers curl back into his hair, trail down his side. Not as gentle as before, but not  _ rough, _ not what he’s looking for here. He needs to yank their chain a bit, get them back to the point of kicking him to the floor and then  _ keeping _ them there. 

It’s fortunate then, that for the past few months that one of his favorite hobbies has been to scandalize Gable into spluttering, to see what exactly gets him underneath their skin instead of a joking reply, playing along. He prefers to know just how exactly to push everyone’s buttons, and Gable had caught his interest for being hard for him to grasp right off the bat, unlike most everyone else. Just a touch vague and indefinable around the edges, just like everything else about them. Too many contradictions, too fluid. One moment it seemed like they delighted in intimidating Dref, and in the next they were defending him from Travis. One moment they were spearing a man through with their seven foot long broadsword in a fit of bloodlust, and in the next they were showing martyr like mercy and kindness to a crew member. 

It had finally started to click a bit, after the whole angel thing. Blazing and terrifying and merciless in battle, in the face of sin, sacrificial and generous in peace, with helpless victims. A classic biblical dichotomy. Still contradictory and a bit too unpredictable and fluid for his tastes, but they made _ sense _ now, in a way. 

He finally felt like he knew them, but the knowing of how to get on their last nerve stayed. As did the habit of it. It was fun! And _ this  _ was going to be fun. 

He just needs to piss them off a little bit first. 

He knees them in the ribs. Gable draws back with a yelp, and then stares at him, incredulous. 

“Oops,” he says, eyes half lidded and mouth grinning. 

_ “Oops?”  _ they repeat, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, oops. Just a little accident! A woopsy, if you will.” 

Gable scoffs, their hands sliding down to his ribs, their touch hot on his skin. Not firmly enough, though, not scratching or bruisingly tight. “I’ll keep the phrasing in mind for when I  _ accidentally _ throw you overboard tomorrow,” they say dryly, and lean back in for a kiss, this time hot and wet against his throat, tongue on his pulse point. 

He shivers, arousal and frustration rising up within him and twisting together.  _ Rough,  _ he needs to make them be rough, what does he have to say to make that happen? 

“That all you got?” he goads, sounding as unimpressed as he can with a tongue and hands and skin on him. 

Gable huffs against the thin skin of his throat, and their hands slide lower. “Have some patience,” they murmur. 

“Patience? Never heard of her.” 

“Yes,  _ now  _ is the time for cheap jokes. How sensual, Travis.” 

He wants-- he just  _ wants-- _

Their hand closes around the length of him, soft and careful with their own calluses and strength, and his breath stutters, his face going warm. This is why he prefers going to bed drunk with drunker partners, who won’t be able to clearly remember his face, much less the expressions he’d made with it, the  _ noises _ he’d made with a mouth plied loose with kisses and drinks. He moans theatrically to cover it up, almost mocking. 

“Shh,” Gable says. “The walls are thin.” And they cover his mouth with their own to silence him. 

That small taste of what he really wants--being _ told _ to be  _ quiet, _ being  _ made  _ to be so--aches more fiercely than any other part of his body. He writhes underneath them, need coiled tightly underneath his skin. 

Gable’s kiss is kind and gentle, a warm summer day when Travis wants to be boiled alive. He breaks away from the kiss, the back of his head thunking onto the wood of the floor, suddenly unable to stand it. 

“Travis?” Gable asks with concern. “Is everything alright?” 

Travis groans, and not in a good sex way. “Stop-- just stop that, right now.” 

“Stop what?” they ask, alarmed, looking down their bodies as if to make sure that there are no errant parts of anatomy doing anything untoward that they were somehow not aware of. “Travis, am I hurting you?” 

“No! Which is _ terrible,  _ by the way, really.” He can’t believe that Gable is actually making him  _ outright ask  _ for this. Unbelievable. Disgraceful. The  _ worst.  _

“Excuse me?” There’s about an equal mix of confusion and incredulity in that question. 

“Honestly, I convince a tall buff angelic berserker with a temper to bed me, and this is what I get? Gentle kisses and  _ consideration?”  _ He says the word the same way some might say _ dead rat. _

“What?” Gable rolls onto their side next to him to properly level the look on their face at him. “Do you want me to  _ smite _ you or something?” 

“Yes! Of course! Obviously! Smite me, Gable! In a sexy way.” 

“In a  _ sexy _ way.” 

“Oh, don’t go acting like that’s not a thing.” 

“It isn’t? I don’t, I don’t understand-- you are being ridiculous. Are you doing some sort of bit at me? Did you seriously talk me into sex just so you could mess with me?” 

“I don’t have to have sex with you to mess with you,” he sighs. Thinks. Gable _ did _ admit to not having a lot of sex, to only having it with trusted friends (they’re still stupid for trusting him, by the way). There’s no way that they don’t know what rough sex is, with how old they are, how they rub shoulders with airiners, who are the couthest rowdiest demographic available, and with the way they joke around with them when they’re relaxed. But, quite possibly, knowing about something and having actually done something are two different things, at least for people not as adaptable and incredible as Travis. 

“That’s true,” Gable admits. “But perhaps you were exceptionally bored.” 

“I have plenty of things I do when I’m bored. I could have bullied Dref. Convinced Jonnit that something fake and stupid is real. Wiped our crew members out for all they’re worth at cards. Scandalized you. I’m very trained at entertaining myself.” 

“All of those things you just said are bad.” 

“Good things are boring and bad things are fun, and those are just the facts. Otherwise, why would people ever do bad things?” 

There’s a thoughtful expression on Gable’s face now. It makes them look a bit like a statue, one of those old Greek ones. Contemplative. They look untouchable and unmoveable, which makes Travis’ fingers itch to touch them, which makes Gable suddenly springing into action such a surprise. Before he knows it, he’s slung over their shoulder like a potato sack. 

“What the--” he says, and is cut off by Gable throwing him onto the bed. The breath is knocked out of him. This bed is _ not _ soft enough to go throwing people at it all willy nilly. 

And then Gable is on top of him, and he forgets all about it. Their hands are curling around his wrists, slamming and holding them over his head, and squeezing  _ hard. _ He tugs at his hands instinctively, and he doesn’t get a single inch. It’s like trying to brute force you way out of handcuffs. 

“Is this what you want?” Gable asks, breath ghosting over his own lips. 

He opens his mouth, and no words come out. There’s a first time for everything. 

Gable looks at his expression, and makes the decision for him, kissing him hotly. It makes heat surge in his gut again, his hips jerk with the desperate need for friction, and when Gable bites at his lower lip he moans. It’s a real moan, uncontrolled and making him feel helpless. Except this time, right here and now, something bad isn’t going to happen to him even if he can’t stop it. He can’t control his own body all of a sudden, the noises coming out of him, but he invited it, he made it happen. This isn’t as inevitable and unavoidable as the sun setting or rising. He went out and made this happen, and it feels  _ good.  _

Gable’s strong hands are digging bruises into his skin, their mouth trailing bites and hickeys, their hips are grinding roughly together, and he gasps, “Inside of me.” 

“I don’t have any oil,” they say, their voice low and husky. They are very clearly not willing to put a pause on this to put on some clothes, leave the room, pretend to be normal in front of the crew, and return with oil five to ten minutes later. 

“Don’t need any,” he says, fighting to be coherent even as his brain is slowly being boiled in heat and intermittently lighting up with pleasure-pain. “I prepared.” 

Gable pauses. Travis grinds against them impatiently. 

“You… prepared yourself.” 

“I  _ knew  _ this was coming,” he says, pointing out the obvious. 

“Oh, you were that confident, were you,” they say, looking up at him, eyes sparkling with amusement. In the dark, they look blue. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” 

“What if I didn’t have the appropriate equipment to be inside of you, then? You weren’t confident about  _ that.” _

“As if I didn’t have a plan B for that,” he scoffs. And then he does a little hip thrust to remind them of what they had been oh so entranced by only a moment ago. 

They get right back to it, sliding into the waiting wet warmth of him. A low sound escapes them as they sink their cock into his ass, and he should reach out to help cover their mouth, but he won’t. He likes that noise. He likes fun experiences. He closes his eyes and takes it in, takes in the slick drag of them slowly sinking in to their root inside of him. They spend a long moment just breathing, not moving an inch. Travis squeezes around the length of him, drawing another sound of Gable with just that motion. 

“Has been a while for you, huh,” he says, instead of  _ fuck you’re hung,  _ voice low so that it doesn’t do anything funny. He feels like he’s going to shatter if he moves the wrong way. 

Provoked, Gable opens their eyes just to narrow them at him, and then thrusts once into him. Both of them have to muffle their own shouts into their hands at that, and then it becomes a race to see who can pretend to be totally suave and with it first. Gable clearly forces themself to thrust again before either of them having caught their breaths, knocking it right back out of Travis’ chest. And then again. Again. 

The son slash daughter of a bitch is finally fucking him. With each upwards thrust, it feels like the momentum is knocking any thoughts right out of his head, leaving behind only what’s in the present for him. The fall of their white hair, the glistening of their muscles, the intent awed look on their face, the way they’re digging their nails into his skin and dragging. 

He’s filled with a thoughtless buzzing good coursing through his veins and filling his lungs as he pants for air that’s flat out overwhelming, that’s too much, except Travis Matagot never says  _ enough, I don’t need any more, don’t give me more. _ Travis Matagot faces mind splintering pain twice a day and then acts debonair five minutes later, and so he fucking  _ will _ feel so good that it feels like his body can’t contain it. Like he’ll crack and break and shatter, pleasure spilling out of him, replacing everything. 

Gable is pumping steady, powerful thrusts into him, making the mattress creak and scream, and then they start going rapidly faster and faster and faster, and then they’re going still and tense and digging their teeth into his shoulder, bloody heat blooming around their mouth. 

“Fuck,” he breathes as they come into him, pawing frantically in the direction of his own cock. He gets in one stroke, two, and then Gable wraps their own hand around his length and strokes with him,  _ squeezes, _ laps at the bloody bite on his shoulder-- 

His mind goes white hot blank, nothing but firing neurons and rushing blood and tingling overheated skin for one long moment. 

When he blinks the spots out of his eyes, his thoughts dizzily coming back to him, he’s lying on a too hard mattress with an angel sprawled out next to him, a sea of white hair around them, bruised and bleeding just a bit. 

He stares up at the ceiling. At the light spilling in from the porthole. He can tell, at a glance, that it’s still midday. Hours before it sets. Hours before he has to think about it, deal with it. Right now, his body feels sated and loose and fine and  _ his. _

His thoughts still feel slow and hazy, his tongue clumsy, but he  _ doesn’t _ feel the urge to scramble to pretend to be perfectly smug and composed, holding all of the cards and advantages, cool and unruffled. He supposes that it’s different, if the thing that’s made you unsteady is a good thing, and not just pain. He’s got plenty of vulnerabilities in just this moment, but he doesn’t have to shield and hide them. It feels… fine. Good. Safe. 

“You’re insufferable,” he drawls slowly, langouring in his patch of midday sunshine and body warmth, sweat cooling on his skin. Gable is ruining him. 

_ “I’m  _ insufferable?” Gable replies belatedly, incredulously, as if disgusted by his audacity. 

And just like that, they’re comfortably bickering again. 


End file.
